Hands
by kissingonconey
Summary: "These are her hands and these hands were just touching Harvey Specter's hands and these are the hands that are still itching to feel his warm skin." H/D, 2x11.


_Just something quick. I really felt pretty inspired by this scene, although I'm afraid I had to keep it somewhat angst-y since I feel that it is pretty canon to where D/H's relationship is now (for me, they are friendly and fine as friends, but when it comes to a relationship, there are a lot of steps to be taken). For those you following __kings and queens__, I'll try and update soon, I promise._

_Disclaimer: None of the recognizable characters or events are mine. No infringement intended. This is true of all my fanfiction._

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Hands

_kissingonconey_

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These are her hands, she thinks, watching them type. These are her hands, the rising and slightly red knuckles, the short nails pained dark, the veins that become more prominent ever year. Her mother used to say you can tell a woman's age by her hands. Her father used to hold her little hand and swing her arms while they crossed the street. These are Donna Paulsen's hands, and hands are important.

These are her hands and these hands were just touching Harvey Specter's hands and these are the hands that are still itching to feel his warm skin.

Her and Harvey, they don't touch, and if they do it's usually elbows to upper arms or shoe to shoe. They never touch hand to hand, that's too intimate, that's not them.

The last time they touched hand to hand was years ago, when her fingers were linked in his and she pulled him into her apartment, and pulled him to flush to her body, and rocked her hips into his moaned his name. The last time, he stroked her hips, got his hand under her shirt, and blew his breath out into her neck. They were against her bookshelf. The books moved under her body as they pressed and pushed and flowed. His thighs against hers, her feet straining against her panties until they finally slide off her. His heat pressed into her, until she gasped and let him fill her. And then they were only a rhythm, two concurrent beats, breaking the other as far as they could go, until breaking turned into shattering, and the bookshelf shook with her body.

They had sex against the bookshelf, hands clutching at each other and eventually joining together, heartline to heartline. They had sex against the bookshelf, and after, used those hands to put their clothes on—she buttoned his shirt, she remembers, and he fingered the side of her panties—and after that they made that rule, that there should never be any more touching.

And with that rule, there was no jealousy and no secret attraction and no nothing. But something about Zoe, and the way that he calls her without Donna's knowledge, and how Zoe is the one he wants to celebrate with, makes her hands shake, makes the jealousy creep back.

_I need you to be me_ and she _knows him_.

But Zoe is the one he wants, he misses, he needs too.

Her hands shook when she held his messages, but they didn't shake when they grabbed his hand and wrist, when she asserted herself, when she reminded him that she's there and she knows and she's Donna. When she joked, but questioned, smirked but challenged. When she made a move that surprised them both.

But the problem with a touch like that, spontaneous as it was, is that it never leaves her hand. She can still feel him there, between her fingers. She can feel his hand, a little too close to her breast and too close to her heart. His hand, just an inch more and it will reach out and touch her, rest his hand against the two most intimate parts of her.

And thinking of his hands on Zoe's face, on Zoe's hips, sparks a certain outrage in her that she can't rein in and can't understand, and suddenly she starts to wonder if all her words have been lies and that things aren't complicated and that really, she just wants him. Loves him, as she knew she did that day against the bookshelf when her spine was pushed in Jane Austen and her head rocked against Gatsby, even though she put that feeling away quickly and soon thought she had forgotten about it.

She walks in on him hours later, while he stares out the window. She has just seen the paperwork for Bennett's hiring, and she knows this is killing him. Her hands itch to rise to his face, cup his cheeks, and whisper that she will fix it, because she can, because she has only ever made one mistakes that she is so sorry for, and she will spend her whole life fixing his just to make up for it.

But she knows the lines and if she passes over them, she'll be pushing them in directions that she's not sure about, and they've already been so close to breaking down completely over a goddamned memo, she just can't do anything. And he cares about Zoe, and he doesn't care about her, not the same way, Donna is sure of that.

So she puts away the ideas that got into her head that morning, she focuses on the jokes and the support and the tiny feelings of positivity she has for Zoe. She reminds herself who she is, executive assistant. She goes to the bathroom and she watches her hands in cold, cold water, so that her knuckles get redder. She rubs all of the feeling out of her hands, including the feel of Harvey's hands against hers.


End file.
